


the heartless versus souls

by trustmeimthe



Category: Deadman Wonderland
Genre: Character Study, Gen, POV Male Character, POV Third Person, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 21:46:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustmeimthe/pseuds/trustmeimthe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>life in deadman wonderland before ganta arrives. it's completely normal. right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	the heartless versus souls

**Author's Note:**

> for catherine. <3

The strangest thing about G-Ward is that it isn't quiet. You'd think a place like this would be quiet, that no one would have anything to say. That every Deadman would walk along the halls like a dead thing, a zombie, a terminal patient in the cruellest and ugliest hospital in the world.

It's not like that at all.

There's crying in the night sometimes, but not as often as there should be. Everybody's cried out, dried out, unwilling to show their enemies/friends the tender places to dig their fingers into. So Deadmen don't cry out in their sleep. They sleep sound as babies. Can't fight if you haven't slept.

Morning comes at the exact same time every day. No negotiating. You can't negotiate with lights on a timer. But Crow beats it, gets up fifteen minutes before the light comes on and exercises in the dark. It's sweet in the dark, the perfect nothing space; his eyes bore into jack shit and sweat drips off him onto the floor that might not be there at all. The only sound then is his breathing and the movement of his skin on the tile, the click of machinery in the distance, the rustle of bodies adjusting in their sleep.

That's the only time he gets quiet, really. Everyone wakes up with the lights. They crawl out of their rooms like worms in masks, waving to each other on the way to the shower. "Hi, good morning, how did you sleep? What do you think we're having for breakfast today?"

As if it's not the same thing every day. As if they're not going to face each other down in exactly three hours and twenty-two minutes. As if one of them might not kill the other. As if blood won't be shed.

Every Deadman's a liar. But every one tells different lies. Senji, for example, he tells lies to the world and keeps more lies wrapped around his heart. Like insulation. But he doesn't recognize them anymore. They're just words that make sense in his head, phrases that hold him up, philosophies that keep him clean and fresh and prepped and alive. He's just gotta stay alive for one more fucking day.

And fighting's fun now, and because it's fun now it always will be fun. He'll never forget how great he feels winning, and not just winning - how great he feels moving, blade digging into the flesh of his arm, skidding and snagging on skin, ripping. Best of all, the warm wet trickle of blood, the prelude to a weapon. Every inch of his skin is fine-tuned to recognize a square millimeter of blood, to prep him for a fight when it spreads and flattens the hair on his arms, to keep him vicious and victorious and useful in his anarchy.

Senji eats alone. He sleeps alone - always, even though some people don't, and security lets it pass because when people fuck they usually wake up happier, Deadmen included in that (for a given value of "people") - and he works out alone. He doesn't feel bad about it. He doesn't feel bad about anything.

This is a great place to be. Because sure, he loses things every once in a while. He's only got half a kidney. But he's got a bag full of candy and a punching bag he can use whenever he wants during daytime hours, points to burn, and not much time to think. Not much energy, either. That's what training's for.

When he goes into the ring he dives headfirst, balls to the wall, eyes wide and psychotic and bloodthirsty. That's a reputation he wants. It's a reputation he deserves. Senji Kiyomasa is Crow. There is nothing divine about him. He's just a guy. Just a guy who wants to pull you apart, throw you on the floor, walk away covered in blood that's not his (anyone's but his), and remember who he is at the end of the day.

Sometimes he sleeps sitting up. Sometimes he sleeps lying down. Sometimes he doesn't sleep at all. When he does, he never remembers drifting off. There's no line between waking and sleeping; it's just suddenly the next morning, fifteen minutes before lights-on.

Not that it matters. Nothing to worry about. There's hardly ever something to worry about down here. Everything moves in rhythm, in routine. Every blow lands, every fight is a golden, frozen moment in time, every bruise is a trophy.

'Cause what's the point of being sad in a place as great as Wonderland?


End file.
